


I Should Be Loyal to the Nightmare Of My Choice

by Filigranka



Series: Napisane, by zadowolić moje wewnętrzne dziecko, id i wszystko, co wyparte [28]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux is Not Nice, Crack, Dark Leia Organa, Enemies, Enemies With Benefits, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Galaxy is Not Nice, Grey & Grey Morality, Interrogation, Lady Organa's Lover, Leia Is Not Nice, One Shot Collection, Politics, Power Imbalance, Prompt Fic, Torture, Torture as coping mechanism, everything from crack to porn through torture and rapes so heed the warnings, only the victims are never wrong (but they lack charisma points)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Collection for Leia/Hux works. What it says on the tin. Everything may happen, non-con and torture especially, I write both her domming/non-conning him and the opposite, heed the warnings, there will be - many things. Some of these were already post on FFA meme, some not. Updates depends mostly on my betas' schedules.And yup, I plan on forever loving this niche ship and writing for it... well, not forever, but until I'll get into a new fandom frenzy.Title's stolen from Conrad.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Leia Organa
Series: Napisane, by zadowolić moje wewnętrzne dziecko, id i wszystko, co wyparte [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/30017
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, a collection of fics I wrote for prompts (from FFA mostly) or my striking fancy. Everything may happen, but I'll do my best to give a proper warning in summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leia's winning. **Warnings: torture, torture as unhealthy coping mechanism, body fluids.**
> 
> Thanks to G. for helping me with grammar!

Hux’s mind is a knot of pain, pain so deep and strong it stops time. Pain and fear, half-induced by drugs, half-natural. Even shame at pissing one’s own trousers isn’t there, there’s only the feeling of cold, wet material and, hah, half-formed thoughts about its electricity-conducting properties.

It’s good. So, so good. Leia doesn’t quite need to use the Force consciously. The whole room is full of Hux’s pain – cracking his bones open, frying his nerves and veins, every breath crushing his lungs; oh, she knows this pain very well.

It’s almost justice. It’s as far from it as possible.

It’s a deal, _their_ deal, and Leia knows her role, knows this bastard’s limits. He’s close to them. Too close, perhaps; not that it matters, not when her underwear is soaking and her knees weak – not when she’s so close as well.

Maybe she should care. Luke would say so, Han might say so – but, ah, who was a part of the _machine_ which killed them both?

She pushes the thought back in order not to lose self-control. Killing Hux, killing their prisoner, their damn future-is-now technologies (documentation of which he was clever enough to burn along with the whole department, human and droid staff included), smashing those bloodied hands, doing what is right... It’d cost Leia her restarted political career. She refuses to lose _one_ thing more because of Vader’s blood.

An interrogation droid beeps and turns off an electroshock needle. The beep is long, the droid’s cautionary light – red. Subject may be irrevocably damaged if the extraction procedure is continued.

Leia could order it to continue. Instead, she forces her lips into a gentle, benevolent smile.

‘Good boy,’ she whispers. ‘Such a good, good boy. I’m proud of you. You resisted thrice the average time. Didn’t pass out. You did great. You’re safe now, it’s over, I’d not let them hurt you too much; but you can take a lot, I’m so proud, you did a fantastic job...’

The wave of pleasure strikes her. Leia winces and pushes it back. She’s not here to feel this bastard’s pleasure. She’s here for his pain. That it ends with something nice for him is just – a part of the deal. An unfortunate side effect.

‘Good boy. I’m so proud,’ she repeats, forcing her voice to get warmer, her hand to comb through Hux’s hair. It’s wet from sweat, but she’s accustomed enough not to shudder. She repeats “Good boy, so, so cherished,” and almost cuts off her connection to the Force entirely, so she won't feel his ecstasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My babbling, entirely skippable: darn, how I'd love to write the whole story out of this.
> 
> I'll just leave a quote from "The Informer" here, because I think Conrad's genius brings an interesting - context, possibility, option - to interpretation of Leia:  
>  _For all their assumption of independence, girls of that class are used to the feeling of being specially protected, as, in fact, they are. This feeling accounts for nine tenths of their audacious gestures._
> 
> Also, heh, now when I think about it, Conrad's _The Informer_ is an amusing counterpart - too big word; and not influence, no, but let's say common cultural background showing? that line about extremist needing optimism first and foremost is so good, more on point than most of political philosophy - to Leia/Hux shipping, at least in my rendition. Taking into account Conrad was a genius, and I'm just playing, of course.
> 
> And taking into account in this collection will, sooner or later, appear my beta-ed tentacle non-con. Well, er, ekhm, poor Conrad. In my defence, de Sade put philosophy in his porn, too?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leia as the winning side. **Warnings: face slapping (hard enough to wound), humiliation.**

The first slap is—proper. Proper enough (open hand, loud clap, second of blindness, a sting and drumming in his ears, but nothing more) that Hux manages to laugh. He’s never been a traitor, unlike the one, the ones, all of them, standing next to the princess, unlike the princess herself, and yet here he is, bound, on his knees, called “dishonourable” and “coward”, denied the rank or rights of a soldier.

A terrorist. Funny, in her mouth.

Like he was the one to put their fleet and Senate in that highly populated system. He’s just begun to tell her this, words finally forming between laughter, when she slaps him again, on the other side of his face, this time with the back of her hand. The one with a big, black ring.

It hurts much more this time. The blow is strong enough it’d send him to the floor if not for her courtiers holding him. He loses his sight for a long moment, but he feels the blood trickling down his cheek and chin. He checks his teeth and the inside of his cheek with his tongue. The teeth are all right, but the cheek might be perforated or almost perforated. The jewel’s edges were cut very sharply, and that, Hux thinks, spitting blood in Leia’s direction—probably, he still can’t see properly—has saved his teeth. A blunter weapon might have smashed—the vectors, the force, the pressure dancing before his eyes—it might—he can't think quickly enough, which is laughable after only a couple of slaps. He—

He hisses when fingers touch his cheek, mockingly gentle. There’s laughter. Probably. Perhaps it’s just the drumming in his ears, much stronger than before.

Somebody lifts his chin up, thumb petting away the blood from his lower lip. The light is too harsh, but fingers dig into his cheek—there’s a sizable cut—when he tries to close his eyes.

His curses come out slurred. One of the fingers slips between his broken lips, tasting of copper. There’s a comment about poor unmannered young men and a joking hand smoothing his hair back behind his ear.

It hurts. Hux realises the ring ripped his earlobe, too.

His sight is coming back slowly, but he already knows it must all be Leia, Leia and her damn jewellery, wet and sticky from his blood and yet still cold against his ear, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose…

‘Look at it.’ Her voice isn’t gentle and neither is her hand, patting his cheek lightly, cordially, making it hurt so much more. Neither are the fingers that smear his blood down his face, no matter how slowly and softly she makes them move. ‘Do you know what this jewel is, boy?’

Boy. Of course. Because she’s above acknowledging the First Order’s military ranks, their titles or even their education system. As she said in a speech some weeks ago, from a legal point of view, “Armitage Hux didn’t even finish primary school”.

He tries to focus. The thing closest to his eyes is the ring, and the damn princess is even kind enough to stop petting him for a moment to let him look.

It’s big, not black after all but deep navy blue. The blood is fresh enough that it’s still a little lighter than the jewel.

‘Some fancy rock.’ The words are too slurred to have any venom.

She sighs and tuts. Makes a show of tucking his hair away from his eyes. The thumb of her other hand is still caressing the lower part of Hux’s face, but his cheek is now almost numb and it doesn’t hurt much anymore.

It’s her triumphant, all-knowing smile of the Core's elite that makes him sick.

‘This “fancy rock”, murderer,’ she says, ‘is a Hosnian Prime sapphire.’ And she raises her hand again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the translation of one of my Polish fics. Leia wins.  
> Thanks to Gammarad! <3
> 
> **Warnings: Ren’s terrible and tries to kill Leia and everybody else. Stream of consciousness. Leia snapping. And Hux’s humiliated, of course, because I’m the creature of simple needs.**

The day was breathtakingly beautiful. The sky was clear and softly red at evening—rose, like wine, just humid enough to be refreshing, almost sparkling—no trace of the morning rain. Pretty, as disasters always are.

That evening Ben was standing against them all, and there was no place to hide, nowhere to escape. Rey didn’t manage to stop him. He threw her at the hangar’s wall. Shattered almost all the bones in Chewie’s body. Poe, wounded, was struggling fruitlessly, the room was filled by Chewie’s wheezing breath, Rey tried to whisper something and Ben lifted her, _clenched his fingers_ , like Vader before—before the torture chamber, before Alderaan—and something in Leia snapped. Memories fell before her eyes, one after another, thousands of them at once.

Perhaps she simply stopped lying to herself. She realised—no, she saw: _Ben will give Rey this cruel, lying choice, exactly like his grandfather, will call the torture droids, ask where they have hidden the Jedi’s texts and these few surviving strong_ _-in-the_ _Force children, will demand the names of the last allies of_ _t_ _he Resistance; Ben will put the blaster to Poe’s, Leia’s, Chewie’s, Finn’s head, and Rey will have to choose and no matter what she’ll_ _say_ _, what she’ll do, it’ll be the wrong answer, and she will never ever forgive herself, and she’ll have to live with this forever, and all of that will happen again, and they’d promised, Leia, Luke, Han, Mon,_ _t_ _he Rebellion, just after Alderaan, they all had promised themselves, had promised to her “never again, never again, never again, we’ll do everything for it to never happen again. Everything.”_

And what good had their promises done? Overrun by the fucking will of the Force.

Something exploded in her. Like Alderaan. Like before, when she had been drifting in the vacuum knowing, deep down, she should have died—it had been unnatural to survive—and had spit on it. Perhaps she had left the Light Side then, not now, on this breathtakingly beautiful evening, when the Force overflowed her so strongly she felt her fingernails burning, when she slammed—and oh, there was _light_ _n_ _ing_ —that ungrateful, arrogant, spoiled brat on the walls, time after time, accidentally, almost unknowingly pushing away also these little tin-soldiers of his, perhaps on that evening she was already out of the Light’s grace. Perhaps she’d slipped from the Light’s fingers in that space vacuum. There is no death, only the Force. One needed to accept it.

Hah. No fucking way.

Later, she would discover that when those idiots tried to shoot her, she had smashed all the blasters in the hangar, every one of them, then the turrets, then—without noticing it, just... going further, because she could, because she had to, because never again—the transporters waiting outside of the base crumbled, shattered to dust by her will, the transporters and the AT-ATs, she hated the AT-ATs, them and the cannon those idiots had brought with them, again, just like on Crait, that miniaturised Death Star—never again, never again, never again—that idiotic cannon, too.

All of this would come later. In the reports, stories, archives. On that evening, still so beautiful, she didn’t even notice it. She didn’t notice the whole base turning into a chaos, entangling, cracking, melting. Everything was turning into the nebula, the point of creation—the Force sung in her veins: take the matter and whatever you desire would be pushed into existence, you could become the mother of not that flawed brat, but the stars, systems, worlds—but she didn’t notice this until the wall she had thrown Ben at almost collapsed.

Leia came back to her senses. She realised she might have hurt Rey or Chewie accidentally, and her throat tightened as she ran to check upon him, them, made sure they were still breathing, that there was still time to do something. The Force, after all, could heal.

In a few seconds, she would discover that this spoiled, selfish shit dared to try to kill her. Not an iota of grace, he just pulled his lightsaber with the Force. Aimed at her. She was focused on Chewie, didn’t have enough room to dodge properly, that—oh, how she _wished_ he had been a bastard—brat might even succeed.

And then Hux made, for the first time in his bloody life, a right decision. Or at very least: a reasonable one.

He pulled out this silly knife of his, threw it and didn’t miss. Ben’s hand got pinned to the floor, saber out of his grasp, the scream alarmed Leia—she made sure that this time _Ben_ would lose consciousness for good—and the fucking _general_ was clever enough to remind everybody Leia was Vader’s daughter. The First Order was more than willing to follow Vader’s blood. Especially when their transport ships were, if he understood the panicked voices in the commlink right, temporarily out of service.

One more word about Vader, Leia told him, and their ships on the orbit would become “out of service”, too. Permanently. She wasn’t sure if it was a bluff.

They apparently weren’t either, not after that little show of hers. The soldiers followed Hux’s example without question. Raised their chins and straightened their backs. Saluted. And Hux, fucking cunt he was, said, so very lightly, carefully, that the Resistance’s medbay seemed to be in need of some repairs, but the First Order’s ships had the best medical equipment of this era.

So many of Chewie’s bones looked broken. Good old Chewie, always so close to Han, so close to them all. Rey was barely breathing, something was wrong with her larynx: if it had not been for the Force, she might be dead already. Dameron and the rest of the soldiers were wounded.

Perhaps Leia had just made the last step out of the Light Side in that hangar. So be it, but she couldn’t leave them. She didn’t want to leave them.

And this band of the terrorists was offering. Thrice-fucking Scorcher of Hosnian was literally trembling, The Force was vibrating with his fear. His little false army, too. Not surprising—half of the room was breaking apart, melting, _decomposing_ around them. Their transport had gone to hell. They stood against the power which had done it all. They were saluting. They were frightened. They were offering.

If she had come closer, slit Hux’s throat, crushed his trachea, laughed and said it was for Hosnian, but all right, I’m taking the rest of you, scoundrels—they would be relieved and deem it a very good price. A low one.

But Leia had been a politician, first and foremost. The ruler and conspirator. She lived to negotiate, impress and _deal_. Killing the man who just had helped her, who had been the first to offer his services—it wouldn’t look good. One had to recognise and reward... common sense. Good choices. The instinct. The Rebellion had been built upon the Imperial Senators and pilots from the Imperial Academy. They had been taking anyone and anything which could have been of use.

And Hux had knocked the blade out of Ben’s hand, just seconds ago. Could be of use, indeed.

Leia had dreamt once about becoming the Chancellor of the democratic Republic. They would have stood up, the whole Senate, cheering and applauding. There would have been a party in the evening, the first one for family and friends, and the closest political allies. And what had she gotten from the Force? Military salutes, standing at attention. Fear. This pack of genocidal cowards.

Well, in politics, in the underground, in casinos, at war, while smuggling—virtually always, the saying had been repeated often by both her parents and Han—one played the hand one had been dealt.

Ha, Hux didn’t manage to stop himself from twitching and closing fists when she came near. Must cost him much to not step back, even without the Force Leia would have felt the tension. Good. _Good_. After all, she could bring the ceiling—if not the very sky—down on their heads.

‘You pledge loyalty, then?’ She wasn’t going to humour these brats with their self-made titles. ‘Offer your servitude?’

Hux nodded. Quick, sharp gesture. She thought she heard the crack of the leather. Amusing, this audacity of his, but Leia didn’t have much time. Chewie and others weren’t getting better.

She hissed. Hux tensed, corrected himself.

‘Yes, general. Commander. Supreme Leader. Whichever—’

‘Without any terms and negotiations?’

‘Yes.’ He almost gaggled, speaking.

‘You recognise my command and my command only?’

‘Yes. Supreme. Leader. Commander. You Highness. General.’ He was choking on words, so eager to please and so unsure how; the most amusing, indeed, but Leia—Chewie—didn’t have time. She tsk-ed and he literally choked. ‘We offer, we pledge, we recognise—I _swear_.’

Perhaps I will secure you all a transport, then. Perhaps you will be of use.

‘And you dare to make a homage,’ she hissed, very quietly, ‘like you would destroy a planetary system? While looking down at me?’

This time the leather cracked for sure. One the construction pillars cracked, too—and maybe, just maybe, Leia accidentally pushed it with the Force, one crack reflecting the other, the ground’s deep tremble following the twitch of Hux’s cheek.

Hux shivered—half of the room shivered and Leia had this disturbing feeling that among those shivering were Poe and other members of the Resistance (why, why, why, they had nothing to fear from her)—and, continuing the chain of self-preserving decisions, knelt.

She would rather not name the self-satisfied, hot feeling flowing through her body. It helped her to control the Force, as long as she felt it, no pillar would crack her _accidentally_. That was enough.

‘Good strategy, little worm. It’ll pay off,’ she whispered, extending her hand. The light swirled in her jewels, the lamps still swaying from the previous fighting. ‘You know what comes next, I presume? Don’t even try to touch my skin, I might not hold my stomach...’ He shuddered again; she smiled. ‘Why, would you prefer my shoes? I wouldn’t, they’re harder to clean.’

Hux’s throat was clenched so tight, whispered the Force, the bile of fear and hubris scraping it raw, his breath laboured, like she would choke him. But he lowered his head, slowly—Leia didn’t raise her hand, he almost fell over taking it (she felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her palm, and the tension blossomed like a flower between her legs; it’s the revulsion, she told herself, it’s the revulsion and he’s just struggling with nausea, too)—and kissed the Alderaan dynastic rings.

(Then, she really was repulsed, then, thinking about Rey and Chewie, taking them into the Order’s medical bay the fastest way possible, about the sure mutiny of the First Order crew and how to stop it, about so many things—so she didn’t push her fingers further, didn’t split Hux’s lips, didn’t scratch his palate bloody. Not then).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to lucymonster and G.!
> 
> **Warnings: interrogation, twist ending, suggested child &marital abuse.**

‘Honey, please, tell me where you hid it.’ He could tell mother was on the verge of tears, although she tried to seem calm. She’d learnt that screaming only made him silent and unreachable. ‘Please.’

He shook his head. ‘You'll give it back to her.’

‘Of course I will. Sweetheart, you can’t just take others’ things. It’s stealing. It’s bad. It’s forbidden.’

‘She has a lot of them. She doesn’t even use them all! She doesn’t need—’ 

‘It’s still  _ her _ jewellery. She likes it very much and she’ll notice it’s gone, believe me.’ Mother’s voice wavered and her fingers dug into his arm, before she realised it and relaxed her grip. ‘Just tell me. I’m not gonna scream and I definitely won’t tell your father. I’m not angry, I’m not angry, I promise I won’t scream, but you can’t do such things. It’s a crime. It makes people sad. How would you feel if someone took your toys?’

He shrugged. He was feeling more and more disappointed—afraid, because mother was obviously afraid, beneath her tight smile—angry and stubborn. ‘Father would give me new ones. Father will buy her new things, too. He buys her everything she wants. He doesn’t buy things for you. It’s unfair. You’re prettier.’

A flicker of a smile passed across her face and immediately died. ‘I don’t need things from your father, honey. I have you. But I don’t want you to steal things and make your father, his wife or me sad or angry. I’m very sad now, thinking how ang—sad she will be when she finds out. So tell me where you hid it and we’ll go put it back, and then we’re going to get you some cakes, and forget about this whole thing, all right?’

‘No.’

No, no, no, because mother needed pretty things, too, and she  _ was _ prettier, and he’d meant for her to be happy, it hadn’t been easy to slip into Maratelle’s bedroom, it hadn’t been easy to break that lock, and he’d done it only because he’d kept thinking how beautiful mother would look, how happy she would be, and now she wasn’t happy, she was afraid and sad, and it was all  _ unfair _ .

Mother glanced at the clock. Shut her eyelids so tightly her whole face wrinkled. Sighed and put her brow to his, and whispered:

‘Sweetheart, do you want me dead? Do you not understand—Maratelle will be very angry, rightfully so, and she won’t scream at you, because you’re a kid, or at me, because I’m her husband’s—it’s below her—she will go straight to your father and he will be angry, too, and he will be right, but you know how he is when he’s angry, don't you?’

His stomach turned to ice.

‘Do you hate me?’ she asked, so quietly he almost missed it, almost didn’t shake his head; but he did shake it, no, no, no, yet she ignored it, her eyes still shut tight. ‘Do you hate me so much for bringing you into this world, making you live here? Do you enjoy making me beg you, seeing your father—‘

‘No, mammy, no, no, no, no, I promise—.’

‘Do you want him to kill me?’

‘NO!’

‘Then tell me, sweetheart. Please, I  _ beg you _ —’ 

‘I don’t want you to—’ 

‘—then tell me. Just tell me, pleasepleaseplease.’

He did.

_ He did. He does. He will. He’d already done so, years ago. And the weight of all those years crushed him, stole his breath, kicked his stomach up to his mouth, made him vomit blood. And oh, he remembered, recalled, he knew everything. Now. As always. As always, for a coward second, he wished he had not. _

And then Hux, well over thirty again, was hanging from the bed’s edge, vomiting acid and blood onto the floor of the interrogation room. The air felt cold—but that was just his exhaustion. In actual fact that damn room was kept warm, to make slipping into the narcotic induced half-sleep quicker.

Grey, easily washable floor, shivers, stale air, stomach spasms, cleaning droids rinsing the floor before he has even  _ finished his business. _ His blood swirled into a drain in the corner. The floor was tilted a little. Very practical.

Droids’ arms pulling him up. A cold wall behind his back. A handkerchief cleaning his face. A glass of water at his lips. A hand without rings or gloves.  _ Don’t worry, mother, I’m alright: _ perhaps he only thought it as he pushed the hand away, whiny like a child. Or perhaps he actually murmured it, because the hand caught his chin and turned his face up.

Her Highness’ gaze, intent. She was searching for signs of brain damage, he assumed. Found none, made a show of sighing with relief and let him go just as another coughing fit started.

The glass reappeared at his mouth. The water was a little salty. A stomach-calming medicine, combined with something for a good sleep. Like always. Her Highness—their precious Force-Girl was too unstable to be exposed to the darkness of the Force-interrogations—liked to pretend she was  _ better _ .

He took some careful sips to soothe his throat. Then a bigger gulp.

He spit it all at her. Water mixed with blood and acid, mostly. It smelled terrible, but he missed her face and she didn’t even flinch.

‘I hate you.’

‘It’s your right as a galactic citizen.’ She smiled. The droids were already cleaning her dress. ‘You can stop this, you know. At any time. Just start talking. It’s not like these interrogations bring me any pleasure.’

‘Liar.’

Leia frowned. ‘I  _ promise _ , If you give us the information willingly, we won’t—‘

‘I lived with your son and Snoke. I know how the Dark Side feels. I know what fuels it. I can recognise—I feel your pleasure, Princess.’

‘Then you know I rarely feel any. I rarely feel anything, nowadays.’ She started petting and lightly scratching his neck, just where the hairline began; she must have taken it from one of his oldest memories. Hux hated the way his muscles still relaxed at it. ‘It’s not like you showed much compassion to the mothers and children on Hosnian Prime. But  _ I  _ am very sorry you made it necessary.’

‘You could choose some other memory.’

‘Would you prefer the one of your Supreme Leader—‘

‘—of  _ your son _ —’

‘—of Ben or Snoke hurting you? I’ll gladly adjust. Looking for such old memories is exhausting.’ And then, when he didn’t immediately answer: ‘Drink more. You will feel better after sleep. Your anger, now, it’s from—then. From before.’

Not so subtle a way of telling him he was acting like a child. But the princess was still caressing him, the sleeping meds were working his way through his body, droids cleaning him up—toothbrush, a bowl, wet cloth on his temples. It was making his feelings dim, distant, blurred. He liked being taken care of, having servants, aides, someone to take his boots off and listen to his every whim. The Resistance played on this from the beginning, he was aware.

He was also aware  _ Ben _ still didn’t utter a word to his mother. He was aware the bruises Ben had left on Hux's neck had taken their sweet time to fade in the Resistance's thinly-stretched care. Before Her Highness’ eyes. Under her fingertips.

Even now, weeks after his capture, dozens of interrogation sessions after, even now he was feeling those bruises—her longing, the dream of hurting, the dream of saving—lingering in her touch.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's based in the same universe as "Every Colour Begins From the White Of Winter", but because it ws, like all prompt things, written independently, it can be read as standalone aka copies its beginning explanation. 
> 
> Thanks to G. for beta!
> 
> **Warnings: nothing, this is cracky and sweet; and Leia’s not so dark here, but she definitely humilates Hux a little.**

It’s such an irony, for Leia to keep being defeated by truths. First, the truth about her father. Now, her son’s bold move of announcing his heritage.

Nobody would trust her intentions any longer and not trusting her meant not trusting the Resistance. It was one of the hardest choices in her life, but she had to step back, to distance herself from the cause so as not to drag it down with her . S he’d smiled to her soldiers in her last—for a time, she tried to convince herself and them, for a time—speech, it was finally her long-awaited retirement. And she’d earned it, right?

She didn’t need to tell them how differently she’d imagined it. But life was cruel, as always, and as always, she did what she had to. Resigned, came back to Chandrila, to her own manor, as the _Supreme Leader of the Order_ so kindly advised—allowed—her to.

Hux was appointed The Order’s “ambassador” to Chandrila almost the very same day. She hadn’t managed to properly move in, even, before he appeared at her doorstep with his stormtroopers.

She expected Ben to send someone to keep an eye on her, but it still hurt that her son, a grandson of Alderaan, chose the man responsible for the repetition of Alderaan’s destruction for this damn role. Forcing her to bear his presence at least twice a week, while troopers were searching her house; forcing _her_ to search through her own house for bugs and cameras. Forcing her to relive her Imperial Senate years of embassy balls and official meetings.

That for Hux it was a slap to the face, too, wasn’t any consolation. But just as she survived the Imperial Senate, Tarkin, Vader and Palpatine, she’ll survive children playing in their masks.

So, when Hux and some stormtroopers appear at her doorstep again, outside the usual schedule, Leia smiles.

‘You think I’m smuggling some weapons or pamphlets in the furniture?’ She shakes her head. ‘My, my, my, your brave new world is a terribly paranoid one. I just wanted to refresh the décor. Now that I’m _retired_ and spend more time at home, all this white isn’t practical anymore. It gets dirty too easily. I’m sure you know, you took care of the clea—the logistics on the Order’s stations, right?’

‘I took care of the logistics _of_ the Order’s stations.’

It’s wonderfully easy to get under Hux’s skin. He reddens a little and gestures to the troopers to start checking all the packages with the furniture—and the furniture itself. Probably for discs and datapads with intel or propaganda, or secret plans and projects.

‘I’m a little offended you think I’d try something under your nose. Especially when I’m buying from Lando. I know you’re watching him just as closely as me.’

‘Almost as closely. Humility doesn’t suit you. And yes, this is exactly why I think you might try something. Bold moves often work surprisingly well.’

‘Experience talking!’ Leia almost sings. ‘I should have told Poe to not teach the Order’s best general new tricks.’

Hux bites his lip. From the inside, but it’s noticeable. Stormtroopers are doing a really great job pretending not to listen.

C-3PO arrives, finally, all worried that their guests haven’t been invited for tea and cookies yet. Hux relaxes slightly—for some reason, he seems to _like_ droids’ company, C-3PO especially.

‘Yes, I’d like to… Tarine one, yes, strong, without sugar, thank you.’ He turns to Leia. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t tried to poison me.’

‘Ben would punish Chandrila for it.’

Hux laughs. ‘Considering your biography, I doubt this would stop you.’

And the worst thing is, he might be right. But her intelligence claims he built a resistance to most known poisons through the years in the viper’s nest called the Order. She wouldn’t risk so many lives to check her sources’ quality—a few soldiers, she might—so Hux can eat her cakes and drink her tea in safety. Besides, it’s the Imperial Senate all over again, and one needs to play accordingly. She managed to win many battles, hearts, funds and pieces of intelligence over tea and wine, then.

Hux isn’t so well-educated, especially in the cultural field—she’s pretty sure his mission to Chandrila is his first time in the Core—but he has some other, ah, assets.

For example, he notices, almost immediately upon coming to the kitchen (“the living- and dining-rooms are in a disarray, all the old furniture's gone, new still being checked by your troopers, only the kitchen looks decent ”) that the coffee machine isn’t working properly, and it takes only a few minutes of slightly sarcastic—Leia’s side—and very embarrassed—Hux’s—conversation to make him start fidgeting with it.

If he was one of her agents, she’d advise him to pick some less obvious method of dealing with stress. But he’s not, so she pokes him some more, until the whole machine lies dismantled on the table and she can more or less suggest he should clean up his own mess.

He shrugs and does so, now pretty much at ease. The machine gets repaired. Apparently, the problems were caused by one of the not-so-subtly placed Order’s bugs putting pressure on the circuits.

Leia crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow. Hux starts to _apologise_ for the inconvenience, before catching himself.

If he was just another Order soldier, she might feel sorry for him. She might like him and try to convince him to switch sides. But a whole destroyed system lies between them—it’s just she has to remind herself of it more and more often.

It’s evening already, when the soldier comes, reporting the furniture is, indeed, clean.

Hux sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Why do I have the feeling the only reason you bothered with redecorating was to waste the Order’s time and act as a decoy for someone else?’

‘Bold accusations for someone who just wasted his time on a false lead. But I’m grateful your soldiers already unpacked my new furniture. Would you mind if they lifted it upstairs? I’ll show them where exactly—‘

‘We’re not your workers, princess.’

‘But your investigation took _time_ and I can’t hire workers at this hour. Don’t you want to help the mother of your beloved Supreme Leader?’

Hux might want to argue, but the stormtrooper says “it’s not a problem, we would be glad’ with the eagerness suggesting the Order’s brainwashing program works disturbingly well. Hux waves a hand at him, mutters something along the lines of “right, right, do as she says, as long as it’s not treacherous,’ and goes back to the coffee machine. He claims he has an idea how to upgrade it—no, he doesn’t mean giving it a blaster rifle, just lowering the energy usage.

Leia goes with the trooper, but turns her head at the door.

‘I almost forgot. The heater in the spare bathroom broke. I don’t know if it’s another of your bugs, but be so kind and take a look at it, _please_.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: well, dubcon, because Hux is Leia’s prisoner. Foot kissing. Also, crack. See, promp was "green cropp tops and dark grey baggy trousers" and was writing it a day or two before TROS came out, knowing they'd both die in it, so. I want to give them something relatively fluffy and crackish. ;)**
> 
> Thanks to G., for helping me with grammar, you're the best! <3

‘This! This is perfect!’

Leia jumped on the sofa, nesting herself to sit on her feet comfortably. She stabbed the pad with her finger. Hux sat at the floor near her knees, eyed the pad suspiciously.

‘What’s this?’

‘Green crop tops and dark grey baggy trousers!’ Leia sounded so cheerful. ‘For you!’

Hux choked.

‘ _No_. Even that golden bikini you found two weeks ago would be better.’

‘Because you could feel like a martyr, not a too-leniently treated war criminal?’ Leia started petting his hair. ‘We can order you the bikini, too.’

‘Sure. It’s not like I have any choice.’ Hux’s pouting tone was, as usual, the absolute best, mix of hurt children and offended king.

‘Well, leave, then.’ Leia took away her hand and waited a moment. ‘What? You aren’t rising up? Afraid of the world outside your deranged sect? Or of bounty hunters? Or perhaps, perhaps you just know half of the galaxy want to kill you to avenge the Hosnian System and the other half plans to take your brain out, put it in some basic cyborg body without much sensory input and take plans of the Starkiller straight from your corrupted mind after some nice, direct-to-neurons torture?’

As usual, Hux didn’t answer. Through her little speech, his eyes never left Leia’s face, searching for—eh, she supposed she knew exactly for. Clues about her mood and how to please her, avoid getting hurt. He still treated her like his previous masters. It was both irritating and—tempting. It’d be so easy to hurt him, so easy to finally make all Leia’s dreams about punishing Tarkin came true.

And it’s not like Hux’s terrified devotion wasn’t pleasing. But until now, it had tended to end in Hux stabbing his masters into a back, and Leia preferred to avoid that. For the good of them both.

So she came back to playing with his hair. It probably wasn’t right, treating him like a pet or a toy, Lando preached to her about “teaching self-agency” in his every call, but this was—a compromise. Something between this dark desire to get justice, to avenge, to _hurt_ and a common sense and morality, this Light Side which took her husband, brother and ultimately even her son, fighting with the old-new danger in the Unknown Regions.

‘You absolutely have a choice.’ She forced her laughter to sound carefree, not dry. ‘What colour do you prefer? Green, blue… Come here, unless you really prefer the floor… Oh, there’s a black one, even! But I’m not sure I should remind you of the Order’s uniforms. Red would look terrible on you…’

‘Perhaps I should pick the bright orange. I won’t be seeing myself much, but you on the other hand... ‘

Hux, now sitting on the sofa, reached for her ankle and began to message her foot. His thumb dug pleasantly into her sole and Leia barely stopped herself from purring.

‘You really must hate this clothes to try _this_.’

'Well, _you_ always mock me for shooting from cannons to flies. And “starting a war from the shot from your biggest weapon”, end of the quote.’ 

‘You say it like it’s not an obvious flaw in your strategy. That Starkiller cannon dividing a poor planet into two halves and erected between them, those and bigger and bigger destroyers in phallic shapes… One can’t fault a woman for thinking there’re some complexes, not military theory, at play.’

‘I thought you don’t mind the quality of my… equipment.’ Oh my, my, my, he sounded offended again and Leia wanted to laugh, this time without bitterness.

‘We ran some tests of it, so at least I know it’s working. Adequate.’

‘Adequate?” Hux almost lost of his breath out of apparent shock.

Leia supposed he was half-playing her, but one couldn’t be sure. The Order’s officers really have sticks up their butts and overblown egos.

She wanted to laugh quite often, recently. Having Hux was like having a young pittin, carefully trying to understand this wild new world, suspicious, but curious of every little thing, including the ones which seem completely normal and safe to Leia and running away, scowling, either to her or to lick his wounded ego in the silence of his room, every time said thing _dared_ to do something unexpected. “Unexpected” meant things from windows in Core world opening differently than Imperial ones to Leia not getting mad and punishing him for making a mistake in calculations in one of the first sketches of a new fighter-engine.

Oh yes. Young pittin, drawing designs of weapons, engines and ships to calm himself down (who doesn’t work, doesn’t get to eat, as the Order’s slogan went). The designs cartels, shipyards, weapon dealers and governments of the galaxy would kill and torture for. And the reason they hadn’t put Hux down, when they’d finally gutted the Order. The reason Leia had preferred to keep him—and she use all her scrambled military power and political influence to make it happen—despite whispers about Tarkin, Alderaan, Hosnian and some many others in her mind.

She might not be a part of the New Republic government, not officially, happily retired on Sulejówek, but she could still ensure they would be first to see her pittin’s scrapings.

Leia put the thoughts away—what had been done, had been done, time to focus on the present; pretty pleasant present—and curled her toes. Hux grumbled and, still radiating offence and hurt, returned to massaging her. He moved Leia’s feet at his face level, nudge it with his nose. It was barely palpable through the hardened skin of her sole, but still, that softened almost-feeling was enjoyable. Leia curled her toes again, just to tickle the bridge of Hux’s nose. Hux’s breath felt nice on the sole of her foot. Warm. Alive.

She had buried so many close ones. Hux was an enemy, one of many, not the most important even, more like a victim of those whose throats she’d forgotten to cut—but he was alive, now, he was alive and near her, and he’d stay so. This was _nice_.

He kissed the centre of her foot. Moved his tongue higher, to her toes and sucked her big toe.

‘You _really_ hate this crop top, aren’t you?’ Leia managed to keep her voice level, despite the desire, suddenly awakened between her thighs, yawning and stretching arms.

‘Top, I could stand,’ mumbled Hux. ‘With some jacket. But these trousers are the worst.’

‘I’ll buy five and make you wear them as a punishment.’

The glare he threw her could burn down stars.

‘I don’t see any reason for you to punish me.’ Now, his tongue was moving along the line of her vein, from the toes, side of her foot, to her ankle.

‘Mhm. You’re a such good boy.’ Leia said it—and used her low, husky voice—just to fluster him; it never failed.

It didn’t fail now, too. Hux got still, and then he swallowed and continued, but there was a tint of rose of these nice, sharp cheekbones of his.

‘Good boy,’ she repeated. ‘Very, very good. For me. Mine.’ Really, she might be just as well stroking his adequate equipment, so strongly he reacted. ‘So, so good. Perfect. Always. Every time.’ _Baggy trousers_ , thought Leia lazily, moving her other feet to _do_ stroke his hardening penis through the tight, dark material of his trousers, _would be definitely more comfortable now, hmm?_ ‘You made me—’ richer and more powerful and influential ‘—happy. Satisfied. Pleased.’

For a moment, she thought Hux might come here and now, in this ridiculously tight trousers he favoured. But he just whimpered and tried to hide his face in her knee. She felt the wrinkles of his face, the skin tensed because of the tightly shut eyelids.

Leia sometimes half-wished for Luke or Han, in their ghostly form, to join them. Hearing the phrase “dad is proud of you” would immediately send Hux to the orbit and she was actually interested in how it’d look, so much pleasure on his face. Pure joy. Safety. Dad won’t hurt you. Tonight.

Perhaps she just wanted to see him not afraid. Or even: just lowering his guard a little. Some part of her wondered if it was even possible, after so many decades—and perhaps this part of Leia thought, then, about Leia herself, her guarded youth at court, in the Senate, in the Rebellion. Perhaps she was wondering if Hux would ever be able to see—for blink of an eye, no longer—someone other than princess of Alderaan, symbol of the Alliance, general of the New Republic, founder of The Resistance; catch the glimpse of a human, fragile, lacking and yearning, beneath all these layers.

Probably not. There was no use to dwell on it.

‘Come here, General’ she commanded, spreading her leg further and lifting her dress. ‘If you do well enough, I’ll—’

She hesitated; but they were already in pretty ridiculous position, as usual in sex—trying to fit on the sofa, speaking in euphemises, like a pair of teenagers—so why not allow herself a moment of silliness?’

‘I’ll instruct you how to operate this, perhaps more than adequate, equipment of yours. Very precisely.’

Hux’s breath hitched. He came closer, kissed the lowest part of Leia’s abdomen, the narrow line of bare skin between her dress and her underwear, before going lower, nudging her panties with his nose, caressing them with his mouth. Neither sucking, not pushing them away, not yet.

Oh, it would be a long game. Leia barely stopped herself from purring. She rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension, make desire escape her body in a small, controlled stream.

The pad, she put on the table, but before, she clicked “add to wishlist” on the cropped top’s set. Her birthday were near—and the set was colourful. Maybe Lando wouldn’t resist the temptation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content: rape (Leia > Hux) - but not violent, not much - Hux imprisoned, blood. Cunnilingus.**

Hux looked so damn good on his knees with blood trickling down his chin.

It was an _epiphany_ for Leia, truly. She commented on it, hesitantly, unsure of others’ reaction, when her soldiers brought the prisoners to her. And her soldiers laughed. That was another epiphany, one that left her blinking in surprise at her own thoughts and the desire uncurling in her belly, strong like a black hole, pulling her inside.

They kept laughing when she told them to take him to her bedroom.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with him—if she really wanted to do anything except take a blaster and shoot him—but whatever it might be, she didn’t enjoy cells. Cells were too close to torture.

She was so tired that day, had so many political and military calls to make, things to do, decisions to weight, that she forgot about the whole thing. She was almost startled to find him there later, a little cleaned (but with blood left on his face, because her soldiers remembered) and literally chained to her bed.

She told the guards to leave and, exhausted, just brushed her teeth, pulled her hair free and fell at the edge of the bed in her clothes. She told the damn rat she might allow him to sleep alongside her—unchained, even—if he was good enough at, ah, oral sex.

He wasn’t; his lack of experience showed. But he tried very hard and was afraid, so obviously afraid, choking a little every time she moved her legs. He was her enemy, Tarkin’s spiritual successor, and yet here he was: terrified, licking her labia, sucking her clit, his hair tickling her groin, his breath short and erratic and warm. Leia’s pleasure had always been all about context. In this context, oh, it was good enough.

She might have half-dreamt her way through it, out of exhaustion and pleasure; her orgasm was a mild, almost unnoticeable one, just a release of tension, but she was also too tired to force Hux to do more. She kicked him lightly, dangerously close to fondly. Unchained him. Told him to take off her shoes—didn’t tell him to kiss them; he did so unprompted, the clever little beast, and it was almost enough to wake Leia up. She made a place for him on the bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She was sure he was too much of a survivalist to try to hurt her. For a coward, it’s better to be a living whore than a dead hero.

When Leia woke up, her first thought was ‘mistake’. The whole night was a mistake.

She should tell her soldiers to take Hux to a cell. His knowledge of the Order’s projects was too precious to kill him unless he did something enormously stupid, so she couldn’t send him— _a man she’d had sex with_ —to his death.

Damn.

And then she turned and looked at the thrice-accursed murderer. He was lying curled on his side, facing her. There were bruises on his brow and cheek, and his lips were broken and swollen. So full.

Leia had spent so many nights alone, waking up in an empty bed, even before Ben—

– She shivered. Her desire didn’t feel like a black hole, this time, but a blossoming flower, filling her whole body.

She moved her thumb over his lower lip. Hux’s eyelids flew open and she smiled, repeating the move, slower. Hux’s lips were dry, but still soft. He blinked a time or three, then sucked on her finger.

The very tip of it, to be precise. He really lacked experience in pleasuring _others_ —or perhaps was just too afraid—and seemed to hesitate before every little move. But Leia kept smiling and Hux kept trying: take more of her fingers and deeper, twirl his tongue along them, lick the underside of her palm. And his engineer’s mind at least supplied him with a lot of options, even if he didn’t quite know how to execute them well. Yet.

He literally gagged when she pushed her fingers deeper, into his throat. Almost sweet. But Leia definitely didn’t need to start the day with cleaning, so she removed her hand. Hux tried and failed to hide his coughing fit, and she laughed.

‘It’s all right. I’ll teach you.’ The thought of checking if Hux’s mouth still tasted of her vagina crossed her mind. It was foolish, but the issue itself… ‘So, well. Let’s find you a toothbrush.’

Hux got his toothbrush, pyjamas and some civilian clothes. He got many undeserved things and Leia sometimes felt a pang of guilt at the injustice of someone like Hux—someone like Tarkin—being treated so well.

Hux didn’t deserve the expensive wooden floor she sometimes exiled him to, let alone the smooth silk sheets of Leia’s bed where he slept when he was good enough boy. Leia ate late, working nights, so he got to eat fancy dinners, even if sometimes straight from her hand. She was sympathetic enough to let him have a few moments on the edge of her bed, far away from her, most evenings, before pulling him close and falling asleep.

Contented and peaceful, knowing he couldn’t go anywhere else. Leia had never realised (had forgotten) how it felt not to long for someone’s messages and visits, but to come back home and know someone else would just be there.

She couldn’t get her dead back, but Hux was (without choice) warm and had a steady heartbeat. He was there, eager to (survive) please her. And if he was to be taken away from her, like all the others, then at least it wouldn’t be someone innocent, someone she truly loved. If she was cursed to see everything and everyone she touched destroyed and killed before her eyes, then, well, it’d be a fitting punishment for his crimes.

Neither the galaxy nor Leia herself could have real justice. The pleasure wasn’t even a partial substitute, but—Leia mused sometimes, lying with her legs open and trying to teach Hux to do things the way Han used to do—every Rebel knew how to turn trash into a valuable asset.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Takes place after TROS and while Hux's alive here, Leia is not.** Sniff, sniff. But of course it doesn't stop her! It's a part of one of my biggest sorta-canonical - Hux's death is imho very obviously of "to be cancelled when Disney will decide" kind - ideas for post-TROS them. Ideas which already spanned universes inside my head, but not so much in my files (but not 0). So, expect it to be made into loosely tied ficlets of one verse, and perhaps one day something longer.
> 
> **It's a little gore-y, caveat lector.**

It’s only when Hux slips, limping through the Exegol’s now-cemetery, falls down the ravine and gets gutted by an apparently severed lever, that he starts to regret Pryde’s carelessness and spite. Not bothering with checking if Hux was truly dead thus letting him escape.

Letting him escape, so he can half-sit, marveling at the Kuat’s shipyard’s logo still visible at the bottom of the lever. The nominal bottom. The nominal bottom of the lever now coming from his abdomen. Hux wonders if the top managed to go all the through him, or is buried somewhere between his organs—

—and then the shock ends.

It hurts. Very, very much. Hux stops thinking about Pryde and focuses his curses on his damn body, still not giving up.

But a human body is a stubborn thing, as his father once said, before giving an exemplary punishment. So it endures, and endures, and endures, and suddenly the lever moves out a little.

Hux shrieks and jerks, and immediately freezes back, because it hurts, and he opens his eyes, even though he hasn’t realised he closed them…

‘We need to take it out.’ Damn Princess Organa, in her famous white, looking just like a woman on the holo-pictures Hux saw during the first war.

Young. So, a ghost. No, more likely a fragment of his delirium.

‘We?’ he croaks, trying to keep his voice low enough not to cause another spike of pain.

‘Right. I’ll do all the heavy-lifting. You’re too hysterical to be of any use.’ She tuts. ‘Youth these days.’

‘Hysterical? I’ve got Kuat’s lever in my—in my—’ He _feels_ blood leaving his face.

‘In your stomach and pancreas, and intestines. Add injured lungs, spleen and bladder to the equation. It was quite an… unfortunate fumble.’

Hux wants to laugh. Oh fucking damn, he wants to laugh, but he also knows he shouldn’t, even when it doesn’t all matter, because he’s going to die anyway. And to think his brain gives him that as the last memory. The sheer gall of his fucking subconsciousness…

‘Don’t move, general.’ “Leia” flicks her wrist.

The lever moves again, quicker, and Hux’s world whitens. And then there’s this terrible feeling of warm emptiness in a place of his body. And then—the flow, the flow which feels like, smells like death, the worst death, in one’s own vomit and piss, and—

He cries for mother. She doesn’t come.

But a hand, basked in a blueish glow, stems that flow. Takes all the things falling out of Hux like scrubs from a broken droid, and puts them back. It hurts, it hurts maybe more, but it hurts like _survival_ , like “You’ll live” and a kick in the ribs for goodbye, thrown along with a bacta-pact.

‘You’ll live,’ repeats Hux, quietly, when he finally catches his breath.

‘Me? In a sense. As you see, the demise of my material body didn’t stop me.’

He forgot she’s there. Forgot, and now needed some new explanation for her presence, because a hallucination wouldn’t be able to heal him.

Perhaps she really is a ghost. Damn Ren talked about them, a lot.

‘Does Ren—’

‘My son’s material form is no longer in this world, too. Are you satisfied?’

Hux feels mostly tired, but he nods. It was his goal for months. A goal he betrayed the Order for, a goal which led him to that damn ravine on that damn planet, filled with ruins of his life and dreams. His mind better decide, later, in more conscious state, that Ren’s defeat was worth it, or else…

‘And happy? Are you happy?’

Hux blinks. It’s a test, he realises, but he has no idea what its rules are. So he says “yes” and immediately knows he failed.

‘Liar. It’s a miracle the intel you gave us wasn’t false.’

‘This is why you treated me? Because I spied for you?’

It seems old-fashioned and stupidly honourable, to care so much for informant, but far as Hux knows, The Resistance runs on stupidly honourable choices.

Leia, ghost-Leia, laughs lightly.

‘Overemotional and vain! An amusing mix!’ She pats his knee. ‘I sacrificed a lot of good beings in my life. Brave. Noble. Heroic. And you, you’re just a scared rat that destroyed planets. I don’t see nothing worth sacrificing here. And no one who would earn an easy way out already.’

‘You want me to…’ Hux hesitates, unsure of a proper word; “pay back” doesn’t seem sentimental enough. ‘…to atone?’

She shakes her head. ‘Atonement and forgiveness are Luke’s forte. Do you know people pray to him on some celestial bodies? And he’s trying to explain to them they don’t have to. I love him.’ For a moment her smile is like a normal sun, warm and bright, and then it transforms into a supernova, hungry and deadly. ‘But I lost my homeworld to the men like you. I know how hard, hard and painful it is to take a breath after breath, after your whole world was shattered into dust. When there’s nowhere in the whole universe for you to come back to. No one who would understand. No place where all your habits and patterns would be normal. I know how it is when every thought reminds you it was your choices which led your people to death. When every breath feels like a theft, no, a robbery.’ Leia’s form transforms, in a blink of an eye, and looks older and all motherly as she caresses Hux’s face with her dirtied hand, let him smell the odour of his own blood, piss and excrement on her fingers. ‘And I want you to live through it all.’


End file.
